


i think that you're something special, and i think your eyes are like crystals, and i think your hands are miracles

by hhopp



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Better not, Crying, Crying Dean, Dean Whump, Drabble, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Emotions, Friends to Lovers, Hands, Holding Hands, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Sad Dean Winchester, Sad Ending, Should I make the twist and shout reference?, Vulnerability, Whump
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-22
Updated: 2017-07-22
Packaged: 2018-12-05 07:03:35
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,310
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11572872
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hhopp/pseuds/hhopp
Summary: Cas' hands. They're always warm, and they're always soft.





	i think that you're something special, and i think your eyes are like crystals, and i think your hands are miracles

Goddamn witches. They’re the uncontested winners of ‘worst supernatural creature’ every year in the history of… ever. This last one had been pretty big on practical jokes— and let’s just say that adding magic into that is not fun for the victim.

 

He rolls his shoulders again and loosens his grip on the steering wheel, Sam dozing beside him while Cas stares into space from the backseat. A stomach growls somewhere in the car. It isn’t his.

 

“Can we stop somewhere?” The gravelly voice isn’t expected and Dean jumps. 

 

“Yeah.” He pauses a minute. “You okay, man?”

 

“Low on grace. I need sustenance for my vessel until I can recharge.”

 

They’re driving through the fringes of an urban area and a McDonalds appears on the horizon near the sinking sun. “How do you feel about burgers?”

 

They rouse Sam and drag the sleepy moose into the bright lights and comfortable warmth of the golden arches. He schlepps off to the bathroom to check his bandages and Dean and Cas take a booth. Dean groans, dropping his forehead onto the sticky table. 

 

The hunting life kind of sucks, all the deaths and the constant injuries and living on the road. Witches are just… annoying. They’re the cherry on top, turning an averagely sucky day into a really sucky one. He sighs.

 

A long hand drops onto his shoulder from across the booth and he startles. When he looks up, Cas is giving him full-on puppy eyes. “Dean, please?”

 

“Cas, if you’re low on grace you shouldn’t waste—”

 

“No,” he interrupts. He grabs Dean’s hand and squeezes.

 

Before he processes that he’s being healed, he realizes that Cas’ hand is warm. Really warm. It’s soft, too— he hasn’t spent a lifetime building up calluses and scars from guns and knives and endless, _endless_ fistfights with both monsters and Dad. His hands fit around Dean’s perfectly. Narrow fingers slide easily between Dean’s shorter, stubbier ones and hold tight; it doesn’t take long for the soreness in his muscles to evaporate like water on a sidewalk in the middle of an Arizona summer. 

 

“Cas. Dude.”

 

“You are not a waste, Dean.”

 

Cas holds onto his hand until Sam comes over with a tray of burgers. 

 

❖❖❖

 

“Dean—”

 

“Cas, I can’t. Not right now.”

 

He lingers in the doorway. “I’m sorry.”

 

And Dean doesn’t check, doesn’t look up from his bloodstained hands on his lap, but he’s pretty sure he doesn’t leave. 

 

And so, after a while, Dean starts to whisper. “Cas, I thought we lost you. I— I thought you were dead. I couldn’t… Cas, I can’t— you can’t—“

 

“I know,” he says softly. He crosses from his position just outside the room and kneels before Dean at the edge of the bed. “I shouldn’t have done what I did.”

 

“You could’ve been killed, man.” 

 

“I know.”

 

“You’re— you don’t have powers anymore. You’ve got to be more careful.”

 

“I know.”

 

“I can’t, Cas. I can’t… _you_ can’t…”

 

“I know, Dean.” He catches catches the hunter’s bloody hands before they can come up to scrub over his face. “I know, and I’m sorry.”

 

It feels like the words are just out of his reach, like they’re meant to soothe but there’s something blocking them off from him. A tear slips out of the corner of his eye, then another, then a hushed, choking river gushing down his face. God, he doesn’t cry. He hasn’t cried in what feels like years. _Men don’t cry, Dean. Don’t you want to be a real man?_

 

But Cas just strokes the drops away with the side of his thumb, hushes him and squeezes Dean’s hands in one of his own. He stays there kneeled on the floor the whole time Dean tries to get himself together, whispering little comforts and squeezing his trembling hands. 

 

Dean sniffles loudly and clears his throat, trying to break the moment. “Cas, you really can’t do that kind of thing anymore,” he says, voice hard. Cas isn’t having it, though.

 

“I know, Dean.” He sighs a little. “I’m okay, though.”

 

And Dean loses it. He starts to remember all the times he _wasn’t_ okay. When Sam wasn’t okay. Or Kevin. Or Bobby. Benny. Or Ellen and Jo. Or Ash. Dad. Mom. And the common thread for all of them is Dean— every single person he loves in this god forsaken world ends up dead, and it’s his fault. He babbles incoherently into Cas shoulder, pitching forward into the angel’s— _ex-_ angel’s— arms. Strong arms hold all his scattering pieces together and rock him back and forth until he’s able to catch his breath. 

 

“Don’t go,” he hiccups. “Not tonight, Cas, stay here with me. Stay here.”

 

And Cas gets it. Gets that he means _stay here, stay here with me. Don’t leave me alone._ Gets that he means _You’re too important for me to lose you, too. I lose everyone. Please, please stay, Cas_. And Cas drops a feather-light, dry kiss on his forehead and nods.

 

Cas’ hands are soft when they help him out of his dirty clothes and his boots and onto the memory foam and smooth sheets. They stay linked with his own when Dean bumps Cas’ nose in the dark, trying to find his lips. Cas’ hand is warm when it cups Dean’s jaw like something important while he kisses him back. 

 

Cas holds onto his hand until they get up in the morning and have to let go in order to make coffee.

 

❖❖❖

 

No. No, no, no nonono _no_. There are not enough swear words in the world for this. 

 

Sam ganks the thing. Good thing, because Dean isn’t in the state of mind to do it, still frozen in place on the opposite side of the warehouse.

 

Cas’ stupid trench coat forms a tan puddle around him. His suit is wrinkled and torn. Even from here, Dean can see the puddle of blood, big and growing larger still. 

 

“Dean, you might want to get over here,” Sam calls, almost hushed. The grave words bounce off the walls and Dean stumbles into action, his feet carrying him towards his fiancé on the ground. He can feel so many different feelings swirling beneath the surface just out of his reach; he wants to claim one of them just so he doesn’t feel so _numb._

 

“Dean?” Cas gurgles hoarsely. He coughs and his entire body shrinks up as if trying to get away from itself. 

 

“Hey, hey, I’m here, baby. I’m here, you’re gonna be okay.” Dean takes his hand and it’s so cold. It’s like ice between his fingers— that in and of itself is so jarring that he almost drops it. 

 

“Dean, it hurts.”

 

“I know, baby. I’m sorry. It’s gonna stop hurting soon, I promise. It’s gonna be okay.” There’s nothing to be done, not this time. Cas isn’t going to just bounce back. 

 

Normally Dean knows every dip and divot and crevice and scar and line and bend of Cas’ hands. knows exactly how they move and how they feel in his own. Tonight they’re split open and blistered from the rough handle of his borrowed knife, paper cut from his research books. Caked in his own blood, more of which is leaking ever so slowly onto the concrete. And they’re cold. They’re so cold, turning blue, and Dean can’t do anything to stop it. 

 

“I love you,” he chokes. Dean nods fervently, ignoring the tears burning down his face. 

 

“I love you, too, Cas. God, I love you so much. You’re gonna be okay, baby. I promise. You’re gonna be okay.” 

 

Cas is wracked with shivers. His lips are turning blue.

 

“I’ve got you, Cas. I’ve got you. Everything’ll be alright.”

 

The color finally leaks out of Cas’ fingertips, and the light out of his eyes.

 

Dean holds onto his hand until Sam drags him away.

**Author's Note:**

> I'm procrastinating. Don't judge me. 
> 
> I own nothing. Kudos, Comments, you know the drill if you've ever read an author's note before.


End file.
